


Like Euphoria and Scotch

by FinAmour



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 5+1, Alcohol, Armchair sex, Fluff, Happy Ending, Kinda Cracky, M/M, POV Second Person, Pining, The Stag Night Fix-It (Sherlock: The Sign of Three)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-06-02
Packaged: 2019-05-17 07:05:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14827676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: You’re drunk.And your handsome friend is seated in the armchair across from you, gazing up from beneath a curtain of golden eyelashes—it sends a rush through your veins that you predict may not entirely be caused by the alcohol.As you take another sip of your drink (spiked with a generous serving of whisky), your companion mumbles something slightly incoherent.It sounds a bit like “I don’t mind.”**********5 different ways it all could have gone + the one way it actually works itself out. (Don’t worry. It works out well.)





	Like Euphoria and Scotch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [livloveel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/livloveel/gifts).



> I love trying new things, and I’ve never written second person POV... I know it’s a bit different, but I figured I’d give it a try. 
> 
> Thanks for reading :)
> 
> Update: I’d like to gift this work to livloveel. Thank you for all of the support you’ve given me and my fics. You’re a complete gem!!!

You’re drunk.

And your handsome friend is seated in the armchair across from you, gazing up from beneath a curtain of golden eyelashes—it sends a rush through your veins that you predict may not entirely be caused by the alcohol.

As you take another sip of your drink (spiked with a generous serving of whisky), your companion mumbles something slightly incoherent.

It sounds a bit like “I don’t mind.”

Everything is annoyingly fuzzy, but you think he may have been reaching towards you—and OH—his hand is on your knee. Your knee has surpassed every other part of your body to become your absolute favourite, because that’s what he’s touching, and it’s the only thing that exists. 

You swallow your drink and make a heroic effort not to be obvious in the basking of the moment. Not entirely sure of how to react, but knowing you should, you respond with a random assortment of consonants blended with vowels.

Alcohol: it dulls the senses and heavily delays the body’s reaction time. As a result, you fail to act when the circumstances you had been hoping for present themselves.

Your friend catches his balance, pushing himself upwards, and the distance between the two of you increases. Your heart feels sad. Your head feels sad. Your knee feels sad.

You close your eyes as you comprehend no fewer than five ways it could have gone better.

 

**********

 

1.

“I don’t mind.”

“Nor do I.”

You and your friend rise from your armchairs and fall into one another, seeking, clinging, in an urgent embrace. He kisses you with the ferocity of a half-starved animal, and he tastes like euphoria and scotch. 

 

2. 

“I don’t mind.”

You set your glass down and make a valiant attempt to unscramble the blur of doctor soldier who is practically buried in your lap. “What did you say?”

“I said…” he responds, placing the other hand on your knee and squeezing it. “I don’t... _mind_.”

In this fantasy, your patellar reflex doesn’t work, which is good, because the feeling of his palm makes every limb SURGE with electricity, and you don’t want to kick your pretty friend. 

“You don’t mind _what_?” You blink a few times, trying to figure out what he means.

“Touching you.” He smiles. “I hope _you_ don’t mind.”

You take both of your hands and experimentally place them onto the back of his. “Hm.” Your voice is laced with mild shock. “Apparently, I do not.”

“Good.” His grin widens. “So if I don’t mind, and you don’t mind, I’m going to touch you some more.”

Although the skin on your cheeks is ten million degrees, your voice is steady this time as you say: “Yes. Do that. Please.”

 

3.

“I don’t mind.”

“Of course you don’t. You’ve been flirting with me for upwards of an hour. I beg of you to stop wasting time—please remove your clothing immediately and come join me in my armchair. I’ve got things I’ve been wanting to try.”

Your friend displays a look of bewildered amusement, but his tongue darts out over his bottom lip in a way that assures you he’s going to obey.

“You think I’ve been flirting with you...for an hour?” he asks coyly.

“Yes. Painfully obvious.”

“You couldn’t be more wrong.” His gaze is so heated that it could burn through an iron wall.

“I’m never wrong,” you state matter-of-factly, mainly because you are, in fact, never wrong.

“I’ve been flirting with you since we met, you idiot. It’s about bloody time you caught on.”

“Oh.” Your heart flutters and a lump forms in your throat. “In that case, we have a lot of time to make up for.”

”Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah, we definitely do.” And the speed at which he removes his clothing rivals the speed of light.

 

4.

“I don’t mind.”

“Well.” You exhale a heavy, irritated sigh. “I _do_.”

“You do?” He tears his hand off of your leg, but that’s not what you’d meant by it.

“To be clear,” you say, “I don’t mind you doing that...thing...you just did with your hand.”

His eyebrow quirks as he looks back up at you. “Oh. You don’t?"

“Not at all.” The corners of your lips turn downwards, as they tend to do when you are troubled and deep in thought. 

“I don’t mind _anything_ you do,” you continue. “You could lean forward off of your armchair and continue to touch me and we could both pretend not to notice. You could yap at me for hours on end about the ridiculous movies you watch. You could order that foul-smelling Chinese dish that you like—every night of the week. You could tell me that I’m insufferable, and tease me about my blog and about the way I wear my coat. You could continue to write, for one hundred and forty years, about me and all the ridiculous, romantic drivel you seem to imagine we partake in. You could toss all the body parts; you could never replenish our milk supply. You could kill a bad man, you could kill many bad men, and I wouldn’t mind. I wouldn’t mind any of it at all.

“What I _do_ mind, however, is that you plan to marry a woman who fails to see the beauty and the value of it all—one who fails to appreciate each and every piece of _you_  brilliantly encompassed by each of those acts.”

The calmness of your voice may not have been upheld as you approached the edge of that statement.

Your friend stares back at you, mouth hanging open. “So.” He swallows. “Are you saying that you might know another person who _does_ see?”

“Me.” You are surprised at the courage you suddenly have. But this is merely a fantasy, so you get to choose how it goes. Besides, it’s the most obvious thing on the planet.

You don’t have much time to observe his reaction. He’s got both of his arms around you and his lips are on your lips, and the way he kisses says, “I see you, too.”

 

5.

“I don’t mind.”

That ingenious hand travels up to your zip, and the other one assists in the undoing of your trousers. Your friend pulls them off of you, and there you are: seated in your armchair, nude from the waist down. 

“I appear to be more naked than you are,” you observe aloud.

“There’s an easy fix for that,” your friend lowly growls, and with a few movements of his hands, you’re even.

You don’t say anything as he bites his lip, looking down at you, eyes as dark as the bottom of the sea. You simply watch in awe, and he lowers himself onto you, wrapping his legs around yours.

As he takes your head into his hands and kisses the top of it, you lean into his touch. He kisses it again, and the bridge of your nose, and the top of your right cheekbone.

Pausing, he tangles his fingers into your hair, inhaling, and continues to hold you exactly like that. Brushing his cheek against yours, he aligns your lower bodies, and initiates a forward roll of his hips.

Hardness pushing into hardness, the waves of his movements are just as powerful as you ever dreamed they might be. As he continues, you say nothing, but the moans that escape from your throat make a very, very clear point. 

Your brain and body eventually seize, everything fading to white. This is the moment he finally takes your mouth into his—kissing you, his lips warm and commanding. There is tongue, and there are teeth, and stifled groans. And before long, his body seizes as well. 

 

+1

You’re hung over.

You’d woken up in a jail cell, and you can’t remember much about last night, but the words “I don’t mind” keep pounding into your brain. You try not to ruminate over how the night could have gone better (in no fewer than five different ways).

“Erm,” you say, as you approach the doorstep with your friend. “Would you like to come upstairs for some tea?”

“I should head home,” he says, his voice hesitant. “She’s probably a little bit worried.”

“Right,” you reply. “I understand.”

Your friend lowers his eyes, his feet shuffling. “I didn’t really get a proper stag do, did I? Perhaps I should let you make me breakfast to make up for it.”

“Of course,” you say, although you’ve never cooked breakfast for him before, and you think he may be mad for trusting you.

You think he may be mad anyway.

After walking inside, he goes into the sitting room, falls into his chair, and begins to doze off.

You put together a delicious assortment of food for him. Not because this is your first opportunity to cook him breakfast, but because it may be your last.

His phone rings. He stirs. He answers it. “What’s that?” he says, and he stands and walks into the upstairs bedroom. Apparently, it’s a private matter.

He’s in there for a very long time. The eggs are cooked. And the juice is ready. And it all starts to go cold.

Twenty minutes later, he reemerges. “That was her,” he says, with no emotion.

“Oh?” you say casually, because you are angry that the eggs are inedible now, and you blame _her_ for that.

“She called to tell me that she slept with someone else last night. An ex-boyfriend.” 

Oh, God. 

Without a second thought, you dart up from your chair to be at his side, and you wrap your arms around him. Just as instantly, his arms are around you, and you’re clinging to one other, because it feels like the right thing to do. 

“Well, then,” your friend says. “Here we are. Embracing one another.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” you say, your lips brushing the top of his head.

“No, he responds. “I don’t mind at all.”

“So will you be continuing on with...?” 

“No,” he says abruptly. “The wedding is off.”

“And how are you feeling?”

“Bit sad. But overall, I think it’s for the best.”

“Good,” you reply. “So you’ll be moving back to Baker Street until things are sorted.”

“That would be nice.” He pulls you in more tightly, and you meet the strength of his embrace. “Please, though—have no ill will towards her. I can’t say she’s entirely to blame for this. She may have sensed that I was in love with someone else.”

Your heart drops. Someone else?

Your voice does something funny again when you ask the question: "Who?”

He chuckles, his laughter settling into the centre of your chest. Leaning his head backwards, he takes your face into his hands, and he smiles at you beneath that curtain of golden eyelashes.

Then, he kisses you softly on the lips, and that’s all the answer you need.

This time, it feels real—because it is.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he whispers as his thumb strokes the corner of your mouth. 

“No,” you respond, your heart overflowing. “No, I don’t mind at all.”


End file.
